


I am leaving, I am leaving (but the fighter still remains)

by Meero94



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Past Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Thoughts, The past suicide attempt is Monica's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1705703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meero94/pseuds/Meero94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian didn't know how long he had been sitting out in the cold or if anyone even knew where he was, he just wanted the numbness and the ache in his bones to go away. He just wanted to relieve the pain in his mind.</p><p> It wasn't until someone started screaming his name that Ian realized he might have made a mistake -except that it was too late by then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I am leaving, I am leaving (but the fighter still remains)

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: There isn't an outright suicide attempt or even serious consideration of one but it's still mentioned, along with depression and Ian questioning his sanity. Please don't read if there's even the possibility this could trigger you. 
> 
> That being said, I'm not sure how this fic happened since I have a few others that I'm supposed to be updating, but I honestly couldn't write anything else until I wrote it. 
> 
> It's not all angst, I promise, and it obviously takes place after 4x12. 
> 
> The title is from the song The Boxer by Simon & Garfunkel... I'm overly creative when it comes to titles, obviously. 
> 
> Enjoy!

His head throbbed with pain, a heavy weight pressing down on his chest. He couldn’t breathe; couldn’t take in enough oxygen to fill his lungs, and his brain supplied that he might be drowning. He was nowhere near water.

His feet were freezing and he shivered from the ache behind his ribs and the biting cold. Still, the cutting temperature was forgotten in the face of Ian’s mind. He knew that no one else could hear the insults being hurtled at him, but Ian glanced around in shame anyway. His back pressed harder against the back wall of the house, and his hands came up to cover his ears, body rocking back and forth ever so slightly. A part of him felt ashamed of the position, it screamed at him to get the fuck up and stop being a baby. It provided him with an image of what he must look like at the moment and he almost laughed out loud. The poster child of mental illness with crazy written across his forehead, that’s what he’d look like to any passerby.

He knew he was sick, sure he did, but up until this moment, Ian never thought of himself as crazy. Surely, most people who were crazy didn’t think of themselves as such. And maybe that was the case for him as well. After all, depressed, bipolar, and crazy all seemed to bleed into one concept as far as the world was concerned, and for once he thought that maybe the world was right.

Ian didn’t belong in a house with normal people looking after him. He belonged in a ward where they could put him to sleep whenever they saw fit.

 _You belong with you mother_ , his brain offered helpfully and Ian nodded in agreement.  _You're just like her._

It had been months since Fiona and Mickey sat him down after that first manic episode he had, and told him what seemed to be the problem. Months, in which he had tried all forms of medicine and heard all manners of empty encouragements. It had been months since he saw Mickey cry for the first time ever and overheard Fiona calming Debby in the kitchen, reassuring the kid that Ian wasn’t Monica and that the knives were locked into a drawer anyway. He felt offended that day and acted snippy towards his sister. Now he wished he had stuck around longer to find out where the key to that drawer was. He felt like he was drowning.

Ian didn’t want to die, not really. He just wanted the pain to stop for a while. He wanted to feel something other than the alternating waves of numbness and heaviness that took him for the past few weeks. His meds had to be changed yet again and Ian was sick of opening new bottles. He was sick of Mickey’s worried glances and of Debby’s hovering and of Fiona’s guilty smiles. He was sick of everything and everyone and he just wanted, _needed_ , the pain residing in his bones to go away. And if only a knife could bleed the pain out of him then he’d do it, but he remembers all too clearly the looks of pure horror on his siblings’ faces when they found Monica drowning in her own blood, and some part of his brain –the part that remains unmarred by the diseases- screams at Ian every time he considers a sharp object for a second too long. So he chooses the cold instead.

There are many ways to feel something other than the numbness, and the bite of cold is one of those. He sits with his head resting against his knees, one arm wrapped around his legs as if to keep him glued together, and the other laid by his side moving slightly as his hand makes swirling patterns into the snow.

He’s still not sure when he started to cry but the tears aren’t slowing down. They leave wet tracks where they run down his face and somehow, despite the biting cold, the wetness on his cheeks burns. After a while, his lids start to grow heavy and he can’t feel the cold anymore. Not much he could feel, really, as he slides into a laying position, head resting against the snow and eyes staring into the distance.

 _So much for losing the numbness_ , the thought mocks him.  

When the voices arrive his way, and the screaming starts, Ian can’t really make sense of the words. He hears them, muffled and distant yet _there_ , but their meaning escapes him. Doesn’t register to begin with.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god oh my god, Ian. Ian, can you hear me? Ian, oh my –“ Someone cries above him. A female. Fiona. “MICKEY! MICKEY I FOUND HIM!” She screams over and over, her face is wet. Why is her face wet? “Mick- Oh my god. Ian, no, please look at me. Look at me, it’s alright, you’ll be alright.”

She has his head in her lap and she’s rubbing at his arms, rocking him slightly just as he did himself a few moments –hours?- ago. She goes on from murmuring soothing words to screaming at someone to get help, and a moment later, Ian can barely feel another pair of hands resting against his freezing skin. Another voice, just as panicked, firing questions at his sister, then frantically wrapping a jacket around Ian’s body.  _Mickey_.

Ian doesn’t really hear the words at this point, but he recognizes the voice anyway. He’d recognize it anywhere, and he wants to apologize so bad. He wants to swear that he didn’t mean for this to happen. He wasn’t trying anything and he didn’t want Mickey’s voice to break this way –he just wanted to feel something.

But before Ian could even attempt to make his lips work, the world goes black.

\------

 

Ian isn’t sure how he got here, or where _here_ is, but he likes the sheets he’s sleeping on. They’re white and soft and definitely not his, but the peeping sound by his head kind of ruins the effect of the nice white sheets. The IV line digging into his skin doesn’t do much to comfort him either.

It takes about five minutes for his brain to kick start and the moment it does, Ian figures that he fucked up real bad. He doesn’t recall much from before waking up in what must be a hospital bed, but he remembers leaving his and Mickey’s room for the first time in two weeks and rounding the house to sit in the backyard. He remembers being barefoot at the time and in thin pajamas that hadn't done much to ward off the cold, and he remembers liking the bite of snow against his skin but not much after that.

 Some part of his brain supplies the distorted images of someone leaning over him and screaming his name but he shoves the memories away. He really doesn’t want to think about the mess he made. Selfish as it is, he just wants to sleep. So he closes his eyes, and allows the sweet darkness to sweep in once more.

\------

 

When Ian wakes up for the second time, there’s someone sleeping on their side next to him, their entire body parallel to his on the narrow bed, and their hand clutching tightly at Ian’s shoulder.

Mickey looks worried even in his sleep. There are dark circles under his eyes and his hair looks dirty and mussed up, as if he haven’t washed it for days and have run his hand through it too many times. His lips are bitten raw and his skin is baler than usual, and it makes Ian hate himself to know that he’s the reason Mickey looks this tired even while sleeping.

He shifts ever so slightly on the bed so he’s facing Mickey better, and ignores the current of pain that flashes up his spine with the movement. With some difficulty, Ian moves his hand to brush some of the messy hair out of Mickey’s face with a feather light touch. It startles Mickey awake all the same.

They stare at each other for a stilted moment, both of them holding their breaths and a thousand words passing between them without either one voicing them. Mickey’s gray blue eyes are at once filled with a mixture of pain, gratitude, and love –but there’s fear there too and it breaks Ian’s heart.

“Hey,” Ian breaths out. His throat hurts and his voice sounds gruff with disuse but he pushes the word through anyway and watches as some of the fear bleeds out of Mickey’s eyes.

“Hey, buddy,” Mickey murmurs back tentatively, his breath brushing Ian’s face. Mickey looks like he wants to say more but when he opens his mouth again nothing comes out, his eyes are reddening rapidly and Ian really doesn’t want to see Mickey cry again. Not when it’s because of Ian.  Not ever.

He moves forward a bit until his forehead is pressed against Mickey’s, his right hand still resting against his boyfriend’s hair and his thump brushing the older boy’s skin in a soft caress.

 _I’m sorry_ , he wants to say, but his throat is too closed up and rough to be of any use. He knows that he should ask for water or question why his head feels clearer than it has in weeks, but he doesn’t. He just closes his eyes and syncs his breathing to Mickey’s.

A moment later, he feels Mickey fitting his head in the crook of Ian’s shoulder and moving one arm to the redhead’s waist, pulling him closer and leaving no space between the two of them. They would look like one person to anyone who walks into the room.  The thought makes Ian smile a bit.

 ------

 

Ian doesn’t think he’d be lucky enough to wake to Mickey by his side a second time, but he does. This time, however, Mickey is awake and reaches for a glass of water the second Ian cracks his eyes open. He cups the back of Ian’s head with one hand and holds the glass to Ian’s lips with the other. His eyes tracking the movement of Ian’s throat and his hand stroking his boyfriend’s hair lightly.

“There you go,” Mickey removes the glass of water when Ian pushes at it, and as he moves to put the glass away, Ian notes that Mickey looks better rested now. Cleaner too, as if he finally gave in and took a shower while Ian slept.

“You look like hell,” is the first thing Ian has to say, and he immediately winces at his choice of words. Mickey raises his eyebrows with a shaky smile.

“You’re one to talk,” Mickey moves back towards the bed, settles down on the edge gingerly. His movements are careful and Ian wants to scream that he’s not fragile. That he can take the jostling of the bed or the anger lurking underneath Mickey’s fear, but then again, Ian is hooked to several machines and is wearing a hospital gown so he can’t make much of a point. “Glass houses, Gallagher.”

Ian gives a small shrug, his shoulder is stiff and his joints ache but it still beats how he felt when he woke up last time. There's a beat of silence after that, one that's pregnant with unsaid words and Ian hates the silence so he breaks it.

“I didn’t mean to –“ Ian takes a deep breath, holds it in, then glances at Mickey. “I just wanted to go outside. Feel the cold.. or _something_ for a change. I didn’t –“ He stops again, bites hard at his lip and stares down at his hands clutching the sheets. “I wasn’t thinking, Mick, I’m sorry.”

Mickey isn’t looking at him, he nods once but doesn’t move or try to speak, and it scares the shit out of Ian. He wants Mickey to shout or curse at him, he wants him to accuse him of being stupid or punch him in the stomach. He wants Mickey to do something –anything- that shows he still cares. That he isn’t considering getting up and leaving Ian for good. It might be selfish of him, since he knows that Mickey deserves much better, but he never wanted anything as much as he wants Mickey to stay.  Even if he’s angry with Ian or if he hates him a little bit. It’d still beat the alternative.

Ian had stopped breathing by the time Mickey looks up, and there, in his eyes, Ian can see betrayal and fear and the shimmer of held back tears.

“Fuck you. I know you didn’t mean to, but fuck you.” Mickey’s words are quiet, no bite to them or real anger. If anything, he sounds relieved. “When Fiona found you –“ Mickey scrubs a hand down his face, inhales on a shaky breath. “You were –fuck, Ian, you looked half dead. I –I swear to fucking hell if you ever do this to me again, I’ll fucking kill you myself.”

But the words are desperate not angry, and when Ian grabs Mickey’s arm, pulling him forward with a weak grasp, Mickey comes willingly. He moves himself fully onto the bed and buries his face in Ian’s neck, bringing warmth and a pleasant feeling into Ian’s chest.

“Fiona is going to kill you, ya know,” Mickey murmurs after a while. They’ve been tangled up this way for the past hour and even the nurse, who came in twice so far, couldn’t intimidate Mickey into releasing his hold on Ian. “Both times you wake up in no-visiting hours. She’s dying to see you.”

“How come you’re here if it’s no-visiting hours?” Ian looks down at Mickey, still tucked into Ian and holding on to him for dear life.

“I could be very convincing, Carrots,” Mickey offers and Ian brushes a kiss against his hair, smiling.

“Sure you can.” Ian answers than breaths out a defeated sigh. “How angry is she?”

“Enough to make me look like that bald guy.. Gandhi?” Mickey answers and Ian snorts, imagining Mickey with glasses and white robes. “She’s scary, your sister. I’m leaving the guilt-trip to her.”

“She’s gonna kick my ass.”

“Yep,” Mickey confirms with forced cheerfulness. “And for good reason –“ He sighs, his voice going softer and fingers splaying against Ian’s stomach. Ian can’t really see his boyfriend’s face, thanks to Mickey’s head resting under Ian’s chin, but he can hear the pain in Mickey’s next words. “You scared the fuck out of both of us. You can’t do that again, Ian.”

“I know, I –“

“No,” in one swift motion, Mickey is sitting up and glaring down at Ian with blazing eyes. “You don’t understand. Never. Again. You have to promise me. Your siblings went crazy, Lip stayed here for two days, Fiona fought every Doctor in the goddamn hospital… They told us –“ His voice breaks but he forces the words through. “One of them told us that you might not make it. That your lungs and body were too weak to push through and that you could have d-died if we didn’t find you when we did. He said you could have lost your damn fingers to the cold if Debby wasn’t smart enough to act even before the ambulance made it to us. That shithead basically said that even with everything they did, you may not make it. I could have punched him but Lip got there first –“

“Shit, he punched a doctor?”

“Well, yeah, he’s banned from visitin’ but that’s besides the point,” Mickey frowned. “The point is that you scared everyone to hell. I almost –fuck, never again. Don’t.  Just.. don’t.” Mickey whispered, and Ian remembered the last time Mickey said the same words to him. It hurt less back then.

“Don’t leave me.” The words are no more than a breath; Ian only hears them because he’s completely focused on Mickey. Watching his movements and straining for his words.

“I promise.” He pulls Miceky back into his arms and the dark-haired boy comes readily.

They don’t speak for the rest of the night but their bodies are pressed close together, their fingers twined and their limps entangled, with Mickey’s head resting against Ian’s chest and creating a good kind of heaviness that keeps Ian grounded.

He knows that there’ll be consequences to his actions, and he knows that he’ll have to gain back everyone’s trust after the incident. He knows that he’ll have to take the meds' changes without complaint and apologize to his family, but all of it seems like a small price to pay for staying alive and having his boyfriend and family by his side.

A while later Ian starts to fall asleep, and in that space between sleep and wakefulness, the one where reality flirts with dreams, Ian’s mind registers the warmth emitting off of Mickey’s body and it comes to him that he prefers the glow of warmth to the bite of cold.

The thought sticks with him long after he falls asleep, and in Ian’s dreams, Mickey warms him like the sun and the ice numbing his veins melts away. He holds on to that warmth tighter.

He holds on to Mickey.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out angst-y then got cheesy as all hell somewhere near the end. Anyway I couldn't help but post it and hope for the best. Also, I know that hospital beds and IV lines aren't that easy to work around in real life, but for the sake of the story, let's pretend that Mickey is willful enough that it doesn't stop him. 
> 
> I really hope that you liked this despite the angst, and I'd love to hear what you thought of it. 
> 
> Comments/kudos would be most appreciated. Thank you for reading!


End file.
